


They Sing in Sweet Dark Voices that Nobody Can Hear

by roebling



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Car Accidents, Depression, Fairies, M/M, Magic, Magicians, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: Yoongi does not want a fairy servant; he is not sure what to do with the one that wants him.





	They Sing in Sweet Dark Voices that Nobody Can Hear

**Author's Note:**

> I thought quite long and hard before I decided to post this. I adore Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell and have been thinking of writing something with Jimin as a fairy servant for quite a while. This is heavily, heavily inspired by Susanna Clarke's mythology, but I think you can read it without having familiarity with the source material. I don't think this story - sad, and a little amorphous, and inconclusive - is what I intended to write, but it's what I've got. It's more a failed style experiment than a true story, and maybe one day I will re-write it, but for now I am posting this, both to prove to myself that even failures have value and because if there's any day this creepy weird depressed little thing is appropriate, I think it might be Halloween. 
> 
> WARNING: this isn't a happy story. I don't know if there is any specific content to warn for, but it just generally isn't happy to the extent that I feel I should call attention to it.
> 
> Thank you to Flea for reading this over <3

He comes late, in the midnight hour. 

Yoongi feels him as a ghost of wind that makes the hair on the nape of his neck rise. 

The lights flicker once, twice, and then go out. 

He has candles ready. 

The match sparks bright into flame, and he holds it to the wick. Fire kindles. Shadows dance, and when Yoongi’s eyes adjust, he sees someone sitting on top of the bookshelf, kicking his feet. 

Shadow child. Shadow dancer. Bluebird. Bluebell. Fleetfoot. Birdfoot. 

He has many names and yet no name, and so Yoongi gave him one. That had been a mistake. 

“Jimin,” he says cautiously. 

Jimin smiles happily. “Yes,” he says. “That’s me.” 

“What are you doing here, Jimin?” Yoongi can’t keep that note of irritation from his voice. 

“Ah,” Jimin says, smiling. His dark eyes glitter. Tonight, his hair is the deep color of the sky on the most perfect autumn day. “I know what you said, Yoongi-ssi,” he says, laughing, “but are you _sure_?” 

Yoongi narrows his eyes. “I’m sure,” he says, flatly. 

Jimin hops off the top of the bookshelf. He moves like smoke, drifting. Like he and gravity have a secret deal on the side. 

Maybe they do. Yoongi doesn’t know. 

Jimin crosses Yoongi’s tiny room, delicately avoiding the books and dirty clothes strewn on the floor. “That other one — _he_ has help.” 

Yoongi nods. “I know that,” he says. 

“He lets my cousins help him,” Jimin says, and there is a petulant note twisting his voice. “Last week they helped him hold the sun in the same spot for an hour. The birds were very upset.” 

“I know,” Yoongi says tiredly. “I saw.” 

It had been on the news too, and in all the newspapers. Magician Kim Namjoon and his fairy servants had held the sun in place over central Seoul for an hour to celebrate the opening of a grand new municipal arts building. 

On the other side of the world, people had worried morning would never come. 

“I could do better than that,” Jimin says, puffing out his chest. “Would you like me to ask the moon to stay still tonight? Or ask the stars to rearrange themselves?” Sitting on the floor at Yoongi’s feet, he presses his soft cheek to Yoongi’s knee. “The stars are my particular friends, you know. They still sing my songs. I’m sure they’ll do me this favor.” 

“No,” Yoongi says quietly. “I don’t want that, Jimin.” 

It had startled him, the first time Jimin had touched him, to discover that the fairy’s flesh felt — well, felt human. Warm, like human flesh, and soft, and real. His complexion is smoother and brighter than any human’s, maybe, like he is made of moonbeams and stardust himself, but he _feels_ real enough. He likes to touch, too, likes to press himself close to Yoongi, like something vital inside of him yearns for the comfort of simple physical contact. 

Jimin sighs. “If you did something like that,” he says quietly, “they might put your picture in the newspaper too. Then you wouldn’t feel so lonely!” 

Yoongi’s straight pen scratches on the parchment. “Who says I’m lonely?” 

Jimin laughs. “You say it,” he says simply. “In your heart, and especially in your eyes.” 

Yoongi scowls.

Jimin’s hand cups up to wrap around his calf, clinging. He tries another tack. “Are you hungry? What would you like to eat? You know I could get you anything you —“ 

“Jimin,” Yoongi says, slamming his book shut. “What did I tell you?” 

Jimin sighs. “You told me you have no need for a fairy servant. But Yoongi-ssi, you—.” 

“I’m trying to get some work done,” Yoongi mutters. “So, stay if you must, but quiet.” 

The shadows flicker again, and in the place of the young main with blue hair and dark eyes, there is a calico cat, cream and grey and rusty rose. It leaps elegantly onto the desk, circles once, and then curls up on a pile of spare papers, big green eyes glittering in the dark. 

Yoongi sighs, reopens his book, and gets to work again. 

*****

Yoongi is not a Norrellite. He does not believe that the key to magic lies locked in dry and dusty tomes. He does not believe that there is _nothing_ to be gained from consorting with fairy servants, in spite of he dangers. He thinks there are great things to be discovered, and he knows with certainty that the fae race lives and breathes magic in a way that men cannot. 

A way that men _should_ not. 

When Kim Namjoon, the nation’s foremost magician, found Hoseok — or when Hoseok found him; details in the paper were unclear — Yoongi hadn’t been upset. He does not aspire to a place of national prominence, and he doesn’t care what those who occupy such places do. Besides, according to all public accounts, Hoseok seems extremely rational, and devoted to Kim Namjoon with all his heart and soul— if fairies have such things.

That’s fine. Kim Namjoon and his fairy servant have done great things, great feats of magic for the good of the nation and mankind. Yoongi’s aspirations are more humble. He has always felt there is some dark door inside of his chest, locked tight. Something hidden inside his heart that he can’t understand, this heavy, alien thing that is part of him that. He thinks magic may let him unlock that door. Yoongi does not need the help of a fairy servant for this quest. He does not want one.

He just doesn’t know what to do with the fairy servant who wants _him_. 

He wakes before dawn with a warm comfortable weight on his stomach. 

The calico cat is curled up there, sleeping, tail over its nose. 

When Yoongi sits up, it hops off and — Pop! Jimin is lying beside him, hands behind his head.

He looks over and smiles. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

Yoongi swallows. He doesn’t remember falling asleep last night, and his mouth feels thick and fuzzy. “Urgh,” he says. 

Jimin shakes his head. “That third glass of whiskey was a mistake,” he says, sing-song. “It always is.” 

Yoongi blinks. He doesn’t remember drinking a third glass of whiskey.

“What shall we do today, Yoongi-ssi?” 

Yoongi wrinkles his nose. Jimin knows full well what he’s got to do today. 

“I need to go to work,” he mutters. “I don’t know what _you’re_ going to be doing.” 

“No,” Jimin moans, throwing himself back onto the bed. “Not work. Let’s not go. Let’s go … oh, anywhere. Where would you like to go, Yoongi-ssi? Anything but work!” 

Yoongi narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to come,” he mutters. “You _shouldn’t_ come. _I_ need to keep a roof over my head.” 

Jimin frowns. “A magician of your talent shouldn’t have to work. You should be showered with gifts, Yoongi-ssi. The most powerful kings in all the land should be vying to have you grace their courts. The most beautiful princes and princesses should be falling at your feet.” 

“Well, they’re not,” Yoongi says, tiredly. “I need to take a shower now.” 

Jimin sits outside the door of the bathroom while Yoongi showers, singing some wordless protest song in a voice as sweet as a bird’s. 

***** 

Yoongi works at a bank. It’s the job he got when he moved to Seoul. He wore a suit to the interview and impressed them with the dexterity with which he counted money. Dexterous hands are essential for a magician. 

It is a terrible job. Jimin is not wrong about that. People yell at him with no provocation, and he has to disinfect his hands so often that they become dry and cracked. 

Walking home after dark, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black overcoat, Yoongi wonders if perhaps he should send a letter to Kim Namjoon, introduce himself, offer his services. This latest renaissance of magic has generated a great deal of interest, but as far as Yoongi knows, very few people with genuine talent. Just Kim Namjoon, and his protege. 

And himself. 

“Oh no. You’ve had a bad day.” 

Yoongi doesn’t startle when Jimin appears beside him silently. “Yeah,” he says tiredly. “Worse now.” 

Jimin is unfazed. Today his hair is the blue-purple color of the sky when the sun has just broken the horizon. He is wearing a ribbon around his neck, and a coat made of some fabric that looks too insubstantial to be real. Cobwebs, sprinkled with dew drops. With his dawn shadow hair and high cheekbones and finely arched eyebrows, he looks — well, not quite human, whatever else he looks. 

“Who wronged you?” Jimin demands. “Should I turn their bones into ice? Should I make it so they hear the song of a thousand bees every time they close their eyes? Should I —?” 

Yoongi snorts. “Nobody wronged me,” he says quietly. “Jimin, you can’t do things like that.” 

“Why not?” Jimin asks, indignant. “If they’ve wronged you, Yoongi-ssi, they deserve to be punished.” 

Yoongi snorts. “That’s now how it works,” he says. “Not anymore.” 

Jimin narrows his eyes. “I don’t like anymore.”

*****

Sometimes after work Yoongi takes the long way home. He wanders the streets between the glistening buildings and and tries to pretend he doesn’t cast covetous glances at the things in the windows. 

There is a leather jacket in the window of one of the stores that he can’t help but linger in front of. The leather looks buttery soft, and the silver hardware gleams. Yoongi can’t afford even a zipper from this store, but he likes to think sometimes about what it would be like if he _were_ the kind of man who could walk into a designer store and point at anything he wanted and make it _his_. 

Yoongi can’t spend three month’s rent on a damn jacket, but it can’t hurt to try it on. 

The air inside the boutique is fragrant and rarified. The sales clerk is skeptical and cool, but perfectly courteous. He brings Yoongi the jacket. The leather is even softer than he’d imagined. He takes off his shabby suit jacket, and slides on the leather jacket. It fits him perfectly — sleeves just the right length. 

He takes it off with physical reluctance, and tells the clerk he’s going to think about it. 

He thinks about it the entire ride home. 

In the morning, the jacket is hanging in his closet. 

 

There's no note, no card, but he doesn't need one to know how it came to be there. 

"Jimin," he says warningly. 

Jimin appears, sitting at the end of Yoongi's bed. "But you liked it so much," he says sadly. “I thought you’d be happy, Yoongi-ssi.” 

Yoongi sighs more deeply. "You can't just take things because you want them, Jimin." 

Jimin's eyes go wide. "You can’t? Why not? There were no spells or protections set against me." 

Yoongi opens his mouth and then shuts it. There's no point in explaining right and wrong to a fairy. They don't believe in such things. 

"It's just ... It's bad," he says lamely.

Jimin pouts. "But it looked so nice on you. Much better on you than it would on anyone else, Yoongi-ssi." 

Yoongi rolls his eyes. 

"I've got to get ready for work," he mutters. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?” 

Jimin, a look of horror on his face, flings himself back on the bed and kicks his feet. "Work? Again?" he moans, sounding pained. 

***** 

Yoongi tries hard not to let himself want too much, tries hard not to let himself _feel_ too much. Sometimes he worries that that heavy dark thing in his chest would consume him if it were unchained. 

But it is hard to be a human being – breathing and walking around under the blue sky, under the bright sun – and not want anything. It’s dangerous, though. Sometimes, at work, he will think to himself that he wants a cup of coffee, and then he will come home and find six cups of coffee crowding his tiny kitchen table. He is scared to want more than that, because Jimin, like a bloodhound, seems to have some way of ferreting out Yoongi’s desires before he even knows them himself. 

He tells Jimin that once, and Jimin just laughs. “Of course I know better than you do,” he says, and he pats Yoongi’s cheek. “That’s why I’m here.” 

Yoongi snorts. “Why’s that?” 

Jimin smiles. “You called me,” he says quietly. “Not with your voice, but with your heart.” 

That dark heavy weight in Yoongi’s chest throbs.

*****

Jimin will not come out if the sun is too bright. He likes cool times, dark times – evenings and midnights. 

"Why?" Yoongi asks him. 

Jimin shakes his head. "I've always preferred the shadows, Yoongi-ssi." 

They are sitting on the roof tonight. The stars are bright. Jimin knows the name of each of them, and more besides, and tells stories about them like they are his old friends. Yoongi is drinking; Jimin does not drink. Yoongi hasn't ever seen him eat, either. When asked, he laughs and says that he lives on dew and nectar, like a moth. 

"Kim Namjoon's fairy goes out with him," Yoongi says, a bit drunk and very tired. "They go out during the day and shit. Good-doing. Do-gooding. Whatever." 

Jimin narrows his eyes. "They choose to do so," he says. "I do not." He leans back, tilting his head up. The line of his pale neck is like script against the black sky, but Yoongi cannot read it. 

"Mmm," Yoongi says. "Pretty inconvenient to have a fairy servant who can't go outside during the day." 

Jimin frowns. "I will," he says. "If you want me to go out during the day, I will. We can go anywhere you'd like, Yoongi-ssi. I am not afraid of the sun. I am not afraid of the light." His expression grows very stern. 

"No," Yoongi says. "It's fine." 

Where would they go anyway? To the bank? Yoongi shivers. 

"Oh," Jimin says, sitting up again. "You’re cold." 

Yoongi nods. 

"I can make you warm," Jimin says. 

The air grows warmer. A trickle of sweat runs down Yoongi's back.

"Too warm," he mumbles. 

Jimin sighs. All the heat dispels. They are again on the cold roof. "Sorry," he says. "Sorry. I wasn't sure how much heat you'd like. I can –" 

"Just. Come here," Yoongi says, and he shifts so that Jimin can sit beside him. He wraps his arm around Jimin's shoulder, pulling him close. 

Jimin holds himself very, very still. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't like it just a little warmer?" he says after a moment. 

"You're keeping me warm," Yoongi says tiredly. "Just like this." 

"Oh," he says, and then he is quiet. 

It could be the whiskey, but Yoongi thinks he can almost hear those star songs Jimin keeps talking about, faint and sad, echoes of voices long, long since silenced.

*****

"If I were more talented," Jimin says, fierce, bristling, close. "Would you want me then? Would you let me help you? Would you let me make you the greatest magician of any age" 

It is three in the morning. Yoongi woke to the sound of someone crying. 

Jimin was lying beside him, sobbing in the dark. 

"I can change," he'd said, desperately, his hand finding Yoongi's in the dark. "Yoongi-ssi, I can change. Would you like me better if my eyes were a different color? Eyes are a dime a dozen. I can change them very easily. If I were taller? If my voice sounded differently? I won a voice once from a man who wanted to know how to bring happiness into his marriage." He laughs, shrill and a little inhuman. "After I had his voice, his marriage was the picture of bliss." 

He stills. Yoongi can't see much by the dim glow of his alarm clock. Jimin is lying on his side. His eyes are yellow, with narrow pupils. Cat eyes, glowing in the dark. 

"Your voice is fine," Yoongi says gruffly. 

"You don't want me," Jimin says, a hint of something harsh and terrible in his voice. "What do I need to do? I can be better, Yoongi-ssi. I can change. I can –" 

"You're fine," Yoongi says quietly. "Jimin, you're fine. I just. I don’t want your help. I don’t want –.”

Jimin shakes his head. "No," he whispers. "Please let me help you. I want to help you, Yoongi-ssi." 

The desperation in his voice is terrible. Vast. A black hole of needing to be used. 

Yoongi knows that feeling. Jimin’s cries echo in the empty dark space inside _him_ , until he can hear nothing else. 

***** 

On a cold evening when the wind speaks strange tongues, they walk along the river. Jimin’s hair is a somber grey today, the color of sad clouds preparing to let loose their cargo of rain. He appeared beside Yoongi when as soon as he emerged from the subway, wearing a long dark coat that flutters dramatically in the wind. 

“You should write the letter,” Jimin says boldly. “You should write to this Kim Namjoon and introduce yourself. If he is threatened by the rise of a rival, I will help you dispatch him.” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “You and what army?” 

Jimin narrows his eyes. “I have led troops into battle,” he says. “I know the sound an arrow makes when it pierces leather armor. I know the sounds men make when their are spilling their lifeblood into the cold earth.” 

Yoongi snorts. “I don’t think wars are fought with bow and arrow anymore, Jimin.” 

Jimin frowns. Then, he tries another tack. “Why did you come here if you did not want to be a great man, Yoongi-ssi?” 

Yoongi shakes his head. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he says quietly. 

“But you won’t accept aid from me,” Jimin says, shaking his head, “and you won’t write to Kim Namjoon. What do you want, Yoongi-ssi?” 

The river, sluggish in its ages old course, churns along beside them. The wind kicks its feet, teasing the water into little whitecaps. 

Yoongi closes his eyes. He wants to be sure he is a good man. Jimin cannot tell him that. Jimin does not even know what good is. 

***** 

The study of magic is an ancient and respected art; the _practice_ of magic is less well established. Court histories contain long accounts of the magicians of old, but before Kim Namjoon made himself known, there hadn’t been a practical magician in the country in hundreds of years. 

Yoongi’s parents had encouraged him to study engineering or medicine, but he had always been drawn to magic. He had devoured the old histories as a child, and read every book on magic available in his local library. 

He had discovered that he could practice magic only by accident. He had been reading one of the classics, and had mouthed aloud the incantation recorded in the pages — a spell to bind things — and been startled to discover that the pages of the book had gotten all stuck together.

He hadn’t been able to unstick them. He had come up with a lie about a spilled bottle of glue and paid a W50,000 fine to the library, and not mentioned the incident to anyone.

*****

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Jimin says sadly. 

Yoongi shakes his head. It is morning, early morning, and although he slept he does not feel rested.

“Don’t go to work,” Jimin says quietly. His voice is soft, velvet, the faintest ghost of wind on the bare skin of Yoongi’s chest. 

“I have to,” Yoongi says. “Gonna get fired if I don’t go to work.” 

Jimin snorts, contemptuous. “If you _let_ yourself,” he says, “you could have anything your heart desired, Yoongi-ssi.” 

Yoongi closes his eyes. He does not know what his heart desires. He does not want to know, dare not look too closely. 

“Don’t go to work,” Jimin says again, presses his soft rosebud lips to Yoongi’s neck. “Don’t go, Yoongi-ssi. Don’t go.” 

The rain beats against the windows. It is cold outside, cold in Yoongi’s miserable little apartment, and the day will bring only long hours of drudgery. Jimin is warm and soft beside him. 

He turns off his alarm, and goes back to sleep, Jimin’s arms wrapped around him, holding him close, binding him. 

***** 

Jimin does not do magic. He is magic. Somehow this distinction remains salient in Yoongi’s mind. 

Jimin, with his bright eyes and hair the color of the sky before a storm and his sweet, sweet voice. 

Jimin, who first came to Yoongi long ago, on a night when he’d fallen asleep reading in his little bedroom in his parents’ house in Daegu. His cheek had been pressed to the page and his head and had dreamed strange and confused dream of light, darkness, and power. The light on his desk had flickered and gone out, and Yoongi had sensed someone beside him.

“Who are you?” Yoongi had asked, half convinced he was still dreaming. 

“Yoongi-ssi,” the fairy had said, “I want to help you.” 

The fairy had offered him fame and fortune and the ready dispatch of all of Yoongi’s enemies. He had been only slightly crestfallen when Yoongi told him that he did not _have_ enemies.

“Well,” the fairy had said, resolute. “I will dispatch them when they appear. If none appear, we can always go find some. There are many terrible people in the world, Yoongi-ssi.” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes. "I don't want enemies," he says quietly. "And I don't want fame." 

Jimin had frowned. “You don’t want fame? What do you want then, Yoongi-ssi? Treasure? Beautiful things? Whatever you want, it is yours. I promise you.” 

Yoongi did not have an answer then. He does not have an answer now.

***** 

Yoongi is fired on a Wednesday. His manager calls him into her office and smiles at him. He knows what is coming. 

“I’m so sorry, Yoongi-ssi,” she says, “but you’ve had four unexcused absences this month.” 

Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut. 

His manager is wearing red lipstick, bright red, blood red. She smiles, baring teeth, and then — 

“I could kill her,” Jimin says. 

Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut. “You can’t kill her,” he says. 

Jimin pouts. 

“It’s my fault,” Yoongi says. 

Jimin frowns. “They do not appreciate you, Yoongi-ssi.” 

Yoongi sighs. “Not much to appreciate,” he mutters. 

Jimin circles the woman, who is frozen stiff as a statue. “Are you sure I can’t kill her?” he asks, eyes narrowed. 

Yoongi nods. “Yes,” he says, annoyed. “Cut it out, Jimin.” 

Jimin snaps his fingers and Yoongi’s manager, still smiling, says, “We hope you the best in your future endeavors, Yoongi-ssi.” 

He feels sick to his stomach.

***** 

After he loses his job, Yoongi keeps nocturnal hours. This suits him, and it suits Jimin too. 

He stays up late reading, pacing, starting letters addressed to Kim Namjoon, and scrapping them. Jimin, as a cat, bats the balled up paper off the edge of the desk. Outside, the traffic noises seem distant. Rain spatters the windows. It is always raining, lately. 

***** 

"What's this?" Yoongi blinks. They are standing in the middle of a club. Lights flicker. Music – strange, terrible music – throbs. Bodies move, rhythmic and insensate. 

Jimin, wearing a shirt made of gossamer fabric the color of a bruise and a necklace of pearls the size of marbles that winds around his neck many times, shrugs. "Let's dance, Yoongi-ssi." 

"I'm wearing pajamas," Yoongi says, looking down at himself. He is still in sweatpants and an old tee shirt. He had been reading a book about the life of John Uskglass, curled up in bed, quite alone. He had closed his eyes, and then opened them and been here. 

Jimin frowns. "Ah," he says. "Right." He looks thoughtful for just a moment, and then smiles, and when Yoongi looks down again he is wearing leather pants and a white tee shirt and his leather jacket, the one Jimin stole for him so long ago. Jimin straightens his lapel. "There," he says. "Better. Dance with me now, Yoongi-ssi." 

Yoongi shakes his head. "I don't really dance," he says. 

Jimin frowns. "Of course you do," he says. 

He takes Yoongi's hand and with more strength than you would think to look at him he pulls Yoongi towards the dance floor. Yoongi stumbles, hesitant. He does not want to dance. He thinks he read something once, about the dance of the fairy host. 

He does not see now that he has any choice. 

***** 

"What's your name?" Yoongi had asked. 

The fairy had shrugged. "Bluebird, they call me," he says, singsong. "Bluebell. Fleetfoot." 

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. "Those aren't names. What did your parents call you?" 

The fairy tilted his head. "Parents?" 

"You know," Yoongi said, waving a hand. "Mother. Father. Uh. Sisters? Brothers?" 

The fairy’s hair is just the color of a bluebell, today. "No mother. No father. Just my cousin the sun and my cousin the vine and my cousin the stone and my cousin the rain and my cousin the wind and my –" 

"I’m not going to call you Bluebell," Yoongi mutters. "How about ..." He shifts through the papers on his desk, catches the name of one of the editors of the last issue of Modern Korean Magic. "How about Jimin?" 

The fairy tries it out. "Jimin?" he says. 

Yoongi shrugs. It's a good name. Sturdy. Normal. 

"Kings and queens have given me riches," the fairy murmurs. "Great treasures. Terrible secrets. Nobody has ever given me a name before, though. Thank you, Yoongi-ssi." 

Yoongi rolls his eyes. "You're welcome, Jimin," he'd said. 

Only later does he realize that Jimin had known his name, although Yoongi had never given that away. 

***** 

The world seems to get dark around the edges. Shadows are darker. Permanent vignette. Yoongi exists in the periphery; sticking to the edges of the sidewalk, the corners of elevators, passing through crowds without being noticed by a single person. He eats when he remembers to eat, and he sleeps when he remembers to sleep, but each day is a faded grey thing that exists between the dark, vivid nights. 

He writes a letter to Kim Namjoon, introducing himself as a practical magician, offering his services. It sits, addressed but unsent, on top of the desk. 

The days grow shorter, and the nights grow longer. On the nights he does not dance with Jimin, Yoongi sits on the roof, listening to the roar of the city far below, watching the stars. He hears them more clearly now, sad distant songs that make his heart hurt. He huddles close in his leather jacket, scarf wrapped around his neck, hands shoved in his pocket. 

"Are you okay?" Jimin asks, appearing at his side. 

Yoongi shrugs. He doesn't know what that means, anymore. "I'm fine," he says. 

"I wish you were happier," Jimin says. He laughs. "I never cared about that before. Funny. I think you are changing me, Yoongi-ssi."

Yoongi has been changed too, but he doesn't know how to say that, so he just closes his eyes and rests his head on Jimin's shoulder. 

***** 

The light turns green and Yoongi steps off the curb onto the street. It is snowing. The sky is grey and the ground is grey and the air is full of falling grey snow that looks like ash. Yoongi holds a bag full of ramen and soju. He’s not hungry, exactly, but dancing is tiring work, and Jimin reminds him that he has to keep his strength up. 

He takes a step, and then all reason collapses. There is tremendous noise, and glass shattering. Car tires squeal. People scream. Yoongi braces for an impact that never comes. 

As suddenly as if someone hit the pause button, everything is frozen. 

Jimin, cloaked in shadows, stands between Yoongi and the skidding cars, hand upraised. Snowflakes hang in midair. The broken glass is like a fountain of glittering light. The faces of the pedestrians are contorted into twisted, horrified screams. 

"You need to be more careful, Yoongi-ssi," Jimin says. “Will you let me help you?” 

Someone had made a left turn against the light and tee-boned the car going straight, pushing it right into Yoongi's path. 

Another step, and another second, and he would have ... 

It doesn't do to think about it. 

He exhales. 

"Yes," he says quietly. “Help me, Jimin.” 

Jimin slowly surveys the scene. Carnage suspended. "I will,” he says. “I’ll save you.” His delight is tangible. He glows. 

"What happens now?" Yoongi feels like he can barely breath. 

"We leave," Jimin says calmly. "Are you ready, Yoongi-ssi?" 

Yoongi is not ready, but he is not sure that he ever will be. He is not sure that it matters.

"Yeah," he says, and he takes Jimin's hand and they go. 

***** 

The stars are larger here, so ripe and cold and close that Yoongi feels like he could reach up and pluck one from the sky. 

A tower rises from the middle of a plain of brambles. A single narrow path cuts through the twisting, spiny mass. Yoongi's clothes had gotten caught and torn on black thorns. The back of his hands are scratched raw, but when they emerge into the clearing before they tower, they see the door laid open. Their way is not barred. They pass the threshold and enter a great hall. All the torches fixed on the wall are dark. Shadowy tapestries hang tattered. 

"What is this place?" he asks Jimin. 

"Home," Jimin says quietly. 

Yoongi's heart aches.

A staircase winds up and up, and they climb, past landings, past wooden doors crumbling from age. There is no noise other than that of their feet on the cold stone. Not a single living thing here. 

Jimin must live here all alone. 

They reach the top of the tower and step out onto a wide, flat roof. There is no parapet; just a flat expanse of stone and then the night, beyond. 

Jimin, sitting beside him, hums something, a happy little tune. 

"I'm so glad you're here with me, Yoongi-ssi," he says. "I'm so glad you came."

Yoongi takes Jimin's hand – warm, pliable, human flesh, even here, in this cold dark place. Jimin turns to smile at him, a bit shy. He weaves their fingers together, and squeezes, a reassuring little gesture. For the first time he can remember, Yoongi’s heart feels light.

Far above them, the luminous silver stars wink out, one by one.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/roebling_writes) or [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/roebling)!


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